


You're Big Now

by GalekhXigisi



Series: The Unholy Holy Trinity Collection [14]
Category: Big Mouth (Cartoon), IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Deaf Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier Are Best Friends, Eddie Kaspbrak & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, F/F, F/M, Hard of Hearing Richie Tozier, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, It gets fucking angsty, M/M, Multi, No Beta, References to Depression, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Self-Harm, Sexual Assault, Stanley Uris Has OCD, Suicide Attempt, The Unholy Holy Trinity, Trans Male Richie Tozier, Trans Richie Tozier, Transphobia, We Die Like Men, canon homophobia, gay longing, this some gay shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-01-30 15:47:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21430708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalekhXigisi/pseuds/GalekhXigisi
Summary: Richie has two hormone monstresses and they increasingly tell him to fuck around and get him into even more trouble now that his friends all have their own, too.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Connie the Hormone Monstress/Mona the Hormone Monstress, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris
Series: The Unholy Holy Trinity Collection [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1553902
Comments: 7
Kudos: 65





	1. Opener before an inevitable time skip

**Author's Note:**

> This has the same laws as the Big Mouth universe

Bill glares at the boy currently sitting in front of him, who seems to be calm as can be, hands folded in front of him and inspecting Eddie’s lunch like he hadn’t just  _ casually _ dropped a ball of information on the group that was now staring at him. Bill, at the ripe age of twelve, had only  _ just _ been greeted by Maury a few nights ago, unlike the others, who had had their own for a while. Eddie and Stan both had their hormone monsters before him, so why was he so late. 

“You’ve got  _ two _ hormone monsters,” Eddie asks with a raised brow, rather confused. 

The monstresses at hand leaned against the table, threatening the questioned child at hand with a jutted finger. “Shut the fuck up, twirp, or he’ll french the  _ fuck _ out of you,” the blonde claims. 

Richie nods at the other. “Yeah, monstresses Mona and Connie. It’s like shared custody because they apparently got in huge trouble a while ago about interfering before it was really my puberty’s time to shine on accident. I don’t remember, but now I’ve got two of ‘em and they’re both fuckin’ crazy.” he snatches up a bag of chips from his friend, who huffs but lets him have it. 

“Damn right, we are,” Connie yells as she slams her fist down on the table, shaking the cups lunch trays as she does so. 

“Why,” Richie asks with a raised brow, stuffing a couple of chips in his mouth. 

“I’ve only got one,” Stan says with a nonchalant shrug. 

“Y - You got tw - tw - two girls?” Bill questions next. 

Richie shrugs at that. “Guys get girl hormone monsters all the time. I’ve just got two now. Apparently, I’m Mona’s first guy and Connie’s first and a half.” 

“First and a half,” Eddie repeats, to which Mona echoes it. 

Richie’s almost certain Maury was, too, though he couldn’t see the monster at the current moment. Maybe he was looking around for one of his dicks, who was to say? “Yeah, we overlap each other on timing,” he says with a nonchalant shrug. His eyes turn towards Connie, who was currently making rather vulgar motions at Eddie and Stan that could be interpreted as anything from  _ fuck you _ to  _ fuck me _ to  _ I’m going to fucking kill you _ to anything in between. Richie had no idea which it could actually be. He wasn’t about to question her as she huffed and turned to Mona. “It’s also so they’ll get along and stop fighting every single time they see each other in office.” 

Mona offers a huffy breathe, smiling, “Yeah, now we’re banging.” 

_ “Hey,” _ Connie huffs in return to it. 

Maurice seems to suddenly appear out of nothing, a cup in his hand as he says, “Sorry I’m late, lost two of my dicks this morning.” 

“But you’ve got iced coffee,” Stan replies as he separates his lunch accordingly. 

“You know what, Stan? You’re the second kid to fuckin’ comment on that and I absolutely hate  _ both _ of you.” 

“You don’t hate me and you don’t hate Andrew,” he replies just as easily as ever. “You’re late but you’ve got iced coffee. It’s eleven thirty-two so you obviously got caught up in more than just finding your dicks and getting coffee.” 

“So I overslept,” he huffs at the boy, “So fuckin’ what?” Stan just hums. “So, what are we talking about?” 

“R - Richie has two hor - hormo - hormone - one monsters.” 

“Shit, really,” Maurice asks before turning towards the other two women. He seems to deflate. “Oh, shit, it’s Connie and Mona.” 

“Don’t  _ Oh, shit, it’s Connie and Mona _ me, Maury,” Connie accuses with a jutted nail, “The fuck do you even  _ mean?” _

“Remember what happened to Missy, Jessi, Andrew, and Nick? Did we not learn the first time that this was a bad mix?” He takes a sip of his coffee before frowning. “This is fuckin’ decaf.” 

“Don’t sleep in, then,” Richie snarks to the monster before turning to Eddie, “Want my goldfish?” 

“But you love your goldfish?” 

“But I took your chips.” He pushes them over without another comment. It was a common enough occurrence that Eddie knew better than to right back on what the other had done. “Besides, I’ve got more in my backpack.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Do you just carry those big cartons of goldfish in your backpack all day?” 

“I also have some in my locker and bookbag,” Richie easily replies as he watches the other groan, annoyed. “How’re you taking to Maury, Bill?” 

Bill hums and gives a slow nod then half shrug, softly supplying, “S’okay.” He doesn’t really know. He doesn’t even really have a stand on it. “How do - o you know hi - him - im?” 

“He’s Stan and Eddie’s, too,” Richie says so easily as he pops another chip into his mouth, not acknowledging the tray of shitty food in front of him. Those chips would probably be all he’d eat and he knows Stan will have something to say about it later if Eddie doesn’t fuss first. “He’s Mona and Connie’s mutual ex, too.” 

“Do you guys shit talk me,” Maury asks as he practically inhales the shitty coffee, gagging the instant he finishes it. 

“Of course,” Mona easily says, currently entertaining herself by holding a lighter underneath her hand. “It’s what girls  _ do.” _

Maury huffs as he slams the empty cup down. “Of  _ course, _ you two do.” 


	2. Not yet a time skip but soon

The boy slips inside his room, falling from the window with a gentle thud. It wasn’t loud enough for anyone to hear, too many blankets and pillows stacked beneath the window this morning in case his mom was still drunk when he got back from school. She was, her yelling still audible from the other room. It’s downstairs, though, so he can hear the muffled words. This house had too-thin walls, able to hear each and every movement she makes audible. It wasn’t her fault, but he was rather tired of hearing glass break over and over again for hours on end. 

“Sugar,” Connie says softly as the boy stumbles to his bed, pulling off his clothes. His chest was hurting and knowingly bruised by now. His shirt comes off messily, the homemade binder falling. “We really need to get you a binder.” 

Mona nods in agreement, part of the way hung out the window with a smile on her lips as she slides in. “Steal your mom’s credit card.” 

“She’ll notice,” he replies without skipping a beat, his words almost silent as he does so. He inhales sharply, the inevitable burp that came with binding following. He coughs after. Every single bit of his lungs sting like there are knives stabbing them. After knowing Henry Bowers for so long, he knew exactly what that felt like. 

Connie hums and shrugs, “So?” 

_ “So?” _ He repeats with a clear frown. “She’ll fucking  _ beat me.” _

“You got me there,” the red-furred monstress replies, her hip cocked to the side as she smiles at the other. “You gonna stay up here ‘til night comes?’ 

He nods, lips pursed. “Yeah, my ribs hurt, can’t do too much.” 

Mona shrugs, “Could put on a tight sports bra and hoodie so you can see your boys.” 

He shakes his head at the blonde. “Too hot. Besides, Bowers would say some shit about it.” He rubs over his ribs, flinching back at his own touch. His hands aren’t even cold enough, everything just fucking  _ hurts. _ He almost starts crying at the pain, biting his lips as his eyes water. The last thing he needed right now was to get his mother’s attention. She’d throw a fit and probably leave dark bruises for all of the world to see. He had a very distinct scar over his lip from the time she had busted it, as well as one on the side of his head that he kept covered with his hair and the one above his brow. He hadn’t told anyone about those. 

Connie runs her hands through his hair, fluffing it up. Mona runs a nail over some of the cuts and bruises from the bandages, making the child shiver at the touch. Neither of the women say anything, Mona getting some creme for the bruises while Connie distracts him to keep down the sobs that would come with her girlfriend cleaning the wounds. Richie cries into his pillow and pretends that it wasn’t happening. Mona, in all her glory, was as gentle as she possibly could have been, quickly cleaning the cuts with disinfectant and a warm, wet cloth. He doesn’t understand how they can interact with the world, but he’s never questioned it and he doubts they know, anyway. 

“You okay, my little  _ bubbala,” _ Connie asks as she rakes her fingers through his hair. She can hear his muffled sobs. 

Mona puts a gentle hand on her lovers’ shoulder, shaking her head. She can tell the redhead wants to cry, too, so she hesitantly takes over, laying beside the boy and not commenting on the bandages on his skin she had put there. Instead, she pulls a blanket over his shoulders and rubs his back, ignoring as the Depression Kitty looms in the background, not yet pouncing on Richie but certainly there. The boy falls asleep with tears staining his face, wide eyes red-rimmed and still wet as can be. 

“Good job, girls,” Kitty says, waving her hips with a smirk, “You managed to do it without our lovely little Rosie showing up.” 

Connie bristles at the mention of Richie’s other hormonal patron, one of the many among him in his set of appointed group. She didn’t need the active embodiment of his gender dysphoria getting to him, no, she had had enough of them the night before when Richie had been clinging to Stan like his life depended on it, not yet sobbing but certainly close to it. Stan still had yet to see the boy genuinely break and she never really wanted him to, either. 

“If not for the fact that my boy is asleep over there,” she threatens, sharp nail jutted at the feline as her girlfriend presses a hand to her shoulder. It only ceases the anger that had been creeping up on her. “Leave him  _ alone.” _

The cat smirks, flicking her tail as she opens the closet door.  _ “Caia, _ ladies,” she says as the portal opens, “can’t wait ‘til next time.” 


	3. Ah, yes, the inevitable timeskip

Out of all the sexual encounters Richie’s had with Connor Bowers, he never really thought his coming out would happen like  _ this. _ One minute, he’s playing a game with Connor, and the next, Richie is getting screamed at with a word only his mother’s called him and Mona said occasionally but never in an angry tone as Henry Bowers had. Before this, there had been lots of times that they had gotten each other off, just two teenagers somewhat new to life and taking full advantage of it. Connor didn’t care what was in Richie’s pants and always called him the right name and pronouns, so Richie trusted him well enough. He always knew it was a harsh rebound from his real crushes, but Connor said he didn’t mind and Richie knew he was just as much of a rebound as Connor was. 

His fingers pull at his hair, wiping his face as he groans at himself. A few words are suddenly uttered beside his ear, the only thing he can catch from it being  _ Richie. _ He sharply turns towards it, inhaling. 

“Bubbala,” Connie asks with a raised brow, confused at the sudden noise. Mona only turns towards Richie with a hand offered towards him. 

A loud thump makes him turn again, now face to face with a giant statue that once stood tall and proud. He can barely balance through the panic that sharpens in him. He prays that his personified anxiety wouldn’t show up as he screams at the Paul Bunyan statue, standing up and stumbling away just in time to not get shi-be-bobbed by his staff. He runs, not even bothering to wonder if the monstresses follow him as he messily throws on his glasses again, breathing labored with fear. 

He falls to the ground, curling up in a ball. “S’not real,” he yells, distress clear, “I’m fuckin high! This is fake! It’s not  _ real!” _ In his panic, he repeats the words, his fear clear by the way he shakes and mind falters. After a few moments of silence, he looks up, inhaling sharply at the sight in front of him. 

A clown stands there, skin pale with only red there to accent the bland gradient. Richie wasn’t scared of clowns, no, but he certainly had a disliking for them after the singular time he had gone to the circus when he was a kid, he had gotten separated from his family and groped by a clown, so, who could blame him, really? His nerves don’t stick. He can already feel the panic set in, a panic attack there. He couldn’t focus on the two monstresses yelling at him. Instead, his attention is focused on clown currently stooped in front of him. Whatever is suddenly in his throat, he’s sure it’s pure panic and a lot less fear than it had been seconds before. 

“Pankratova,” the clown says with a smirk, “That’s a pretty name!” 

“That’s not my  _ name,” _ Richie yells, his throat aching as tears start falling. He hadn’t heard that name since he had been pulled from his biological father’s custody. 

The clown smirks, saying, “Lovely little lady you are! The whole town could know within  _ seconds!” _

Richie doesn’t feel like listening to this. Within his panic and the sudden sharp awareness of his chest being pronounced, he takes a leap of faith, standing and thrusting his fist forward, eyes clamped shut. It collides with something, but when Richie finally opens his eyes, there’s nothing there, just Connie and Mona trying to talk to him and calm him down from the panic attack. They hold his hands, run their fingers through his hair, talk to him as they pull him out of the sheer panic he had been in moments before. 

“My little  _ mentsh,” _ Connie whines, her arms wrapping tightly around him before suddenly pulling back to grip at his shoulders, “what the  _ fuck _ was that? Are you alright?” 

“What the  _ fuck,” _ Richie weakly whimpers in return, forcing himself to stand with help from the monstress. Mona keep a hand connected to his shoulder as they walk. The two monstresses discuss the clown while Richie does his best to process it, vaguely thinking about Georgie, Bill’s little brother, who had gone missing two months ago. He wonders if this had anything to do with it. 

As they walk by the drains, Richie thinks he hears,  _ “Maybe I’ll try being your parents next time.” _ He ignores it in favor of focusing on walking home. Summer would soon lead to the schools’ release, just two weeks left of it. 

“Are we not going to address that,” Mona asks, a sharp nail jutted behind her, pointed at the park a few blocks back. “That was sort of traumatizing, wasn’t it?’ 

Connie frowns, nodding, “Yeah, it really wasn’t all too great, was it?” 

Richie waves them off, glaring at the two ladies. “Don’t want to right now,” he says simply, “can we talk about it later?” 

Mona purses her lips for a moment, letting out a slow sigh finally. “Let’s go see Stan, see if Eddie’s with him.” 

“And then have henry call them slurs, too,” he retorts. 

“Don’t take that tone with her, young man,” Connie snaps. 

Richie turns towards the redhead, glaring at her as he easily says, “I  _ will _ cry on you, Connie. Do you want to cry, too, Connie?” 

“You wouldn’t  _ dare,” _ she juts. However, the tears are already falling from his face. “Stop!” 

The boy just frowns and continues his walking, knowing he’ll have to go home to his mother. Eddie was out of town to visit his aunts, Stan had some “Jewish shit”  _ (his words exactly) _ to do, and Bill was grounded for losing his hamster after stealing his pipes. Typically, that wouldn’t be too much of an issue, but the little shit had decided it was a great time to chew through all the phone wires. The hamster had, by some miracle, survived getting electrocuted  _ twice. _ He could go to the quarry, but that would leave him alone and open for any of Bowers’ punishments. He was already vulnerable enough just standing in the street as he currently was. 

“I’m sorry,” he admits with a frown, hugging himself. He barely registers the Depression Kitty trailing beside him, her touch warm and somewhat calming. He ignores her and the rest of the monsters that come along with her to the best of his ability. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really hyped to write the scenes with Pennywise. There's gonna be a lot of emotion. Hell yeah.


	4. Like a few hours later?? Still the same day?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Putting timestamps as the title because I need to keep track of everything for myself

Connie frowns as she watches Richie kneel, knife pressing into the wood. “Wait, so, why’re we doing this,” the monstress asks, her hip cocked out to the side as she questions him, “ain’t this really old school?” Her hand shifts in an  _ eh?  _ sort of motion during the last two words, brow raised. 

“Don’t patronize him, Love,” Mona says, hanging off of the other woman’s shoulder, peering at where Richie was scraping out the letters and symbols. “He has to proclaim his love for the two! It’s romantic!” 

“Y’all bring knives on dates to carve letters into trees and wood?’ 

Mona smirks as she asks, “And you don’t?” 

“With Boiwers around,” Richie interrupts as he carves the outline for the  _ S,  _ beginning to go over them now, “you have to keep a knife on you at all times.” He did, whether it be out of habit or just because. His father, biological, had always insinuated that he have some form of means to protect himself, no matter what. And, well, after Richie came home from school with a busted lip and black eye, Wentworth had taken the liberty to buy Richie his own pocket knife like Richie hadn’t kiven Henry and Patrick Hell for that. He didn’t fight back much anymore. 

Mona nods, “As we should anyway.” She smirks at her girlfriend, chin perched on her shoulder and arm around the redhead’s waist now, “Never know when the need will arise to write your true love’s name on something, now would you?” 

Richie rolls his eyes, though an affectionate smile graces him as he says, “Please don’t fuck on the kissing bridge? I know you have some sort of blade or blood kink, but I don’t want to get into it.” His teasing was lighthearted, an improvement from hours earlier when he had been on his way home before getting angry about the stupid clown and the entire encounter with him. He had screamed at the Depression Kitty, exploding with emotions. He had hated how it made him feel, but it was nice to get rid of those emotions. 

“Oh, you  _ will  _ hear about our sex life,” the blonde threatens with a smile, “just as we have to hear about yours.” 

“That’s not fair, Mona. You’re my hormone monstresses, you both signed up for this when you two took your jobs.” He finishes his words, smiling as he stands, proud as can be. “Besides, it’s not like there’s even much to tell.” 

“You and me both, buddy,” Connie scoffs, though Mona and Richie both laugh. “It’s a lot to deal with with having, like, four teenagers at once as your kids.” 

“Just four,” Richie asks with a raised brow, “Doesn’t Maury have, like, twenty-three now?” 

The redhead waves him off with a glare, “Not my point, bubbala,” she supplies, “I’ve just got you, Jessie, and Nick right now, so, not too much.” 

“I’ve got you and Missy,” Mona reports obediently, “now, let’s go see Stan and ride his dick since he’s out of all that shit his dad wanted him to do!” 

“As  _ if,”  _ Connie scoffs with a wave of her hand, Richie stuffing the knife back into his pocket with a smirk, “He’s more traditional. Do you think he’ll make us wait for marriage or something?” 

“No way,” Richie comments, “I’ve seen his morning wood and what Maury’s said about it. There is no possible way Stan would make us wait.” 

The red-headed monstress snaps her fingers, pointing at Richie in agreement, “Yeah! You’re right!” 

Mona bumps her hip with the other as she walks with Richie’s movements. “We should  _ definitely  _ go and see him, then. It doesn’t count as a rebound if the guy he was banging was a rebound for him.” 

The boy frowns, brows furrowing. “Doesn’t it?” 

Both women shrug, Connie easily asking, “How the fuck should we know?” He only shrugs in reply, hands pressing into his pockets as he walks forward. He guesses he will go and see Stan, if not so he could be able to just lay with the other, talk about their days or whatever. Stan probably wouldn’t want to talk about anything and Richie would just tell him about spending most of the day in the arcade before going to see the Paul Bunyan statue like he tended to do sometimes. It wasn’t abnormal for him, really. 


	5. No Lullaby

Richie rests his head on Stan’s chest, laid on top of the taller boy. He’s tired and he feels like shit, honestly, but that’s okay. For now, he can ignore his insecurities and hold tight to his best friend, eyes closed and listening to the music that softly comes from the radio a few feet away. That’s what Richie liked about Stan. he didn’t leave room for silence. The silence was bad for both of them. They both had some form of depression, stemming from different things but still present nonetheless. Stan’s from his OCD and the shit that was said from it, Richie’s from a million different things that he had yet to officially pin or tackle. Richie had yet to tell Stan about the million different things and Stan was content to wait for it. 

His hands run through Richie’s hair, playing with the black coils without thinking about it. If Richie were a cat, he’s sure he’d be purring now, content with all of the affection Stan offered. He wasn’t affectionate when they were around Bill and Eddie, not really, but Richie liked these moments where they laid together, content and surrounded by comfort, existing in their own little bubble made just for them. The touch provided is warm and comforting. It grounds Richie to the moment. Only Stan, Eddie, Bill, and his father, Wentworth, knew just how much Richie depended on physical touch to ground him. He got distracted so easily that it was ridiculous, barely able to keep a conversation going when he didn’t take his medication. His ADHD medication was the only thing he made sure to take daily. The last time he had forgotten it, he had had a panic attack from all the overstimulation that had happened far too easily. 

“What’re you thinking about,” Stan asks softly, his hand still playing with his hair. 

If Richie were going to be honest, he would say he was still thinking about earlier today. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to get anywhere near Connor again without Henry pulling a bullet or knife in him, so he’s pretty sure that friendship right there is over as can be already. He doesn’t want to talk about that, so, instead, he says, ‘Not much, you?” 

Stan just shrugs with a hum, softly saying, “Maurice is being a perv.” 

Richie lets out a gentle laugh, easily telling the other, “Well, Mona is telling me to ride you right now, so, I guess we’re in the same boat.” 

Stan smiles down at the other, not continuing on with the conversation as he listens to the other’s soft breathing. It’s clear he’s been binding too tightly for too long, his breathing labored and a little heavy. He hadn’t seen the bruises that were beneath the bandages, but he knew they were there, already covered in genuine bandages and not the measly binding Richie used. Sure, he had them on earlier, but Stan saw the gauze and medical tape when the younger boy’s shirt rode up earlier. He worries for Richie, worries about the cracked ribs and clear strain he keeps putting himself under. One day, the boy is going to end up in the hospital because of this. Or, maybe one day he would push too much and his heart and lungs would both give out. 

His smile falls at the consideration of that. He didn’t want to consider Richie dying. No, no, he had done so before when Richie had gotten super sick a couple of years back and that had given Stan enough anxiety to metaphorically put him in a mental hospital with paranoia. He had spent every waking moment with Eddie or Bill during that time, all three fearing for his health. He had spent an entire two weeks in the hospital before coming home and acting as if he hadn’t been on the brink of death. Stan had been so angry at him, breaking down in sobs at one point. He had realized then that he loved Richie, really  _ loved _ Richie he hadn’t told anyone and he doubts he will, either, especially not when Eddie was another apple of his eye. 

He really had tried not to love Eddie and Richie. He had tried so hard. But Stan had been a lonely child, born and raised in Derry up until Bill moved in. Yes, Stan loved Bill, but he loved Bill for different reasons and in a different way. He didn’t see Bill and want to hold his face and kiss away the smile that never met his eyes  _ (because it always did, unlike Richie’s) _ or tell him he was safe and didn’t have to go back to his house or to some shit doctor’s or crappy hospital two hours away  _ (not like he had with the two he loved). _ Now, he liked Bill and wanted nothing more than hugs and soft affection that came with friendship. 

With Richie and Eddie, well… obviously, it was different. Richie had been there for Stan, listening to him and calming his down with a careful ear, hearing aids always in as Stan choked through whatever bothered him. He stayed as a constant presence and had yet to waver on that. Eddie would express his concern with distractions, pulling him out of a shitty depression funk with whatever managed to be on his mind that way. He was more prominent with distractions than Richie was, who liked to listen and talk out what was wrong. Richie had yet to spew any problems like Stan constantly would, but Stan knows he’ll say it when it finally comes around. Richie needed time to filter everything, to get everything sorted on his own and out of his system before he decided to share anything. The group of four friends knew that well enough on their own. 

He thinks about the two a lot, about Richie and Eddie a lot. It’s more than just a crush, he thinks. It wasn’t just a fixation on them, either. He  _ loves _ them, would even  _ die _ for them. He wants to keep them safe, to will away what haunted them, to get rid of Sonia Kaspbrak and Maggie Tozier so he could see the two smile so brightly without the fear that they were being too happy and some impending doom would befall them. He wants to take Eddie away from that house that smelled too much like a hospital  _ (which had made Richie throw up at multiple points) _ and show him that none of those shitty illnesses Sonia had forced onto him were real. And he wanted to slap Maggie and prove to her that physical and mental abuse wasn’t the correct way to treat a child, especially one with PTSD from a similar situation. He wishes with all his being that he could get them away from their mothers. 

In Derry, he had found that parents were shitty and couldn’t be trusted outside of a very select few, such as his own and Wentworth Tozier, though Wentworth was rarely home and Richie said the last time he had seen him was December because he kept getting jobs and can’t skip them. Stan prays that that’s the truth because he doesn’t want to see the little bit of light Richie still has in his eyes disappear, dying from yet another shitty parent. The time Eddie had suggested that maybe Wentworth was lying, the three boys had watched Richie absolutely deflate, falling silent and somber as he was asked and barely talking to any of them for the rest of the day. Eddie had apologized nonstop for a week straight and it had taken almost a month  _ (and a phone call from his father) _ to bring a genuine smile back to his face. He had only been nine at that time. 

Stan wonders about a lot of things, too. He had remembered the one time he had come over to see Richie, sitting on the couch and waiting for Richie. Richie had sputtered something to his mother, tripping down the stairs and landing on his ass at the bottom before standing up like it was nothing. Maggie had asked, _ “Girly, you bangin’ this boy? Bein’ a propper lady for’im?”  _ Richie had paled and shaken his head, looking sickly at being asked that. Wentworth had derailed the conversation and Richie had left the home the instant he got a chance, not letting Stan stick around long enough to hear Maggie’s banter. 

He thinks about it a lot, too, about what it would be if Richie were to be dating him, if he had been a  _ proper lady _ for him. He can’t imagine Richie as anything outside of Richard Trashmouth Tozier, the boy who seemed to always told shitty jokes and flirted with the boys and killed Eddie and Stan’s cheeks when they weren’t in public just because he could do so. He wouldn’t want Richie to be a girl for him, not at all. The thought makes him pale, his stomach flopping and expression falling. He had seen Richie’s discomfort during his monthly and he surely doesn’t want that as a continuous feeling. The broken looks and painful flinches he got during those times were enough. He wishes he didn’t have to see them ever again. 

Richie’s breathing settles, eyes shut as he lays against the other, passed out within minutes. He had taken some sort of sleeping medication, something that wasn’t abnormal because Richie could rarely ever sleep on his own. However, Stanley wishes he’d take a little more care of himself, carefully removing the hearing aids and glasses like he had done so many times before. It was a school night, which meant Richie needed the extra sleep while he could get it. For the next five days, he’d only be getting a couple of hours of sleep, working hard to keep his education up. He was naturally smart, didn’t even need to study, to begin with, but Maggie was harsh and would scream at him so he couldn’t get his sleep because he had to study. It had imprinted years of psychological damage on the boy. He had yet to break the habit and Stan knows it won’t halt until he gets out of that house, nor will the way he lacks any control over himself. 

“What’re you thinking about,” Maurice asks, standing beside the bed and peering at the two boys, “You look like you ate an onion.” 

Stan cringes at that, groaning softly as he supplies, “That’s gross.” 

“So is your expression, Stan.” 

Stanley softens, expression turning somber as he folds Richie’s glasses, putting them on the corner of the nightstand beside his bed and flicking the light off, a nightlight beside the bed left on. It was always left on because Richie hated waking up in full darkness and he spent far more days here, with Stan, than he did at home. He’s adapted to Richie’s needs, covered as many bases as he can. Richie’s done the same, even if the raven-haired boy would never admit it. 

“Richie,” he whispers, “and Eddie.” 

“Tell me something new,” the hormone monster teases. He’s probably kneeling beside the bed now, voice still quiet despite the fact Richie probably couldn’t hear him. “But what specifically? You look sad and kind of angry. And it’s not because you can’t jack off to them, trust me.” 

“Their moms suck,” he says, turning towards the other. His eyes aren’t too adjusted yet, but he can see the faint outline of Maurice thanks to the little light. He was kneeling, bent over somewhat to see the other. “And Richie doesn’t take care of himself at all but he takes care of everyone else.” 

Maury nods in agreement, understanding what he means. It was a common center for their conversations, Stan expressing concern about Richie while Maury listened and offered feedback. Now, though, Stan feels emotionally drained from even thinking about it. He’s rather tired, too, surprised he had stayed awake so late already. 

“Night, Maury,” he says softly. 

The hormone monster knows to cut it then and there, saying his own goodnights to the boy before the boy falls asleep with his best friend laid on top of him. He pretends he doesn’t with that Eddie was there, too, the three curled around each other and warm because Eddie was always basically a heater and Richie was always cold to the touch, Stan sitting somewhere in the middle, being a mediator for the two. They would lay with Richie in the middle, curled on his side as Eddie spooned him and Richie spooned Stan, hands laced together in a messy little display, legs tangled together beneath layers of blankets. That was how their sleepovers always went. 

He wishes it were like that now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha! Finally, a good chapter that shows off how much I can write for just a little chapter! Also, finally, another point of view that isn't Richie's! Don't get me wrong, Richie's my favorite, but I also love Stan and Mike with my entire being. And more about their histories together! 
> 
> Also, Maggie Tozier doesn't deserve rights!


	6. Chapter 6

Stan doesn’t see too much of Richie outside of the morning. The instant he gets to school, Richie disappears in the halls, weaving in and out of people with too much ease. He’s in those extra classes that Stan never understood but respected his best friend for. However, he sees the graffiti on the bathroom stalls, seeing the  _ Richie Tozier Sucks Flamer Cock _ line over and over again. He doesn’t know what happened, but he hears the students say something about Richie and Henry Bowers’ little cousin, Connor. The mentioned blonde didn’t say anything, but Stan saw his wary look when he passed the other in the hall. It was something apologetic and sad that he couldn’t put a tack on. It may have been guilt or even regret, but Stan couldn’t tell, the expression getting lost in the crowd just like Richie had. 

He doesn’t see him at all for the rest of the day, which was rather concerning for the raven-haired boy. Richie had synced their schedules up, planned them out for each of the boys so that they had their lunch periods together and the single free period they had together, too. Stan didn’t see him once during that, either. Then again, he hadn’t seen Henry Bowers and his gang during that, either, which was dots Stan hadn’t connected until he saw Richie bolting out of the school at the end of the day, running past the three boys that he typically stood by with bruises littering bare arms and face. From what Stan could see, he was bleeding, too, from the mouth. Stan wants to run after him, but he knows that wouldn’t help any of them in this situation. Richie would probably shut them down immediately and close off from them for a rather long while. They don’t need that. 

“What ha - hap - happened,” Bill asks, “Why are they calling him - im…  _ you know?” _ He won’t say it and the other two boys both know it. He wouldn’t repeat those disgusting words that the entire school pinned on Richie Tozier without an ounce of remorse. 

“He tried to bang Henry Bowers cousin, Connor,” Eddie more asks than anything else, voice weak. “I’m not sure if he did, but that’s what everyone is saying happened.” He gives a light shrug, brows furrowed and expression almost  _ hurt. _

Stan wishes he could wipe that expression off his face and kiss it better, but then he’d get the same treatment Richie was currently getting. For some reason, he knows he won’t be able to hold up to it like Richie managed to survive it. Stan wouldn’t make it too long. He never could handle being alone, so he doubts be could handle being alone and afraid like Richie definitely was. “Maybe we should check up on him?” 

“Maggie would kill up and Richie if we did,” Eddie says. 

Stan wants to hold Richie and Eddie both. He wants to tell them it’ll be okay, that what everyone says isn’t true. He wonders if Richie knows that, if he’s thinking about it with a grain of salt like he does everything else. Richie didn’t take things personally, really. However, if he did… Does Richie take anything Bowers says seriously? His smile hadn’t met his eyes in so long… Had Richie really been taking all fo the insults everyone threw at him seriously? He pales at that consideration that maybe it wasn’t actually Richie just blowing it off like he normally did. 

“Y - Yeah,” Bill sadly mumbles, brows furrowed as he focuses his eyes on the grass, kicking at the ground. 

“So, what now, then,” Eddie asks, brow raised. 

“We could wait it out,” Stan unhappily suggests. He’s reluctant to even say it, really, but he has to say something, doesn’t he? 

“Wi - Will that help,” Bill asks, his own brow raised skeptically. “Doesn’t letting him s - s - ste - ew make him sadder?” 

Eddie shrugs, unsure of if that were good or bad for his mental health. Stan, unfortunately, is unsure, too. He should have  _ known. _ He was there for a lot of Richie’s talks, but… Richie didn’t talk too much about his emotional turmoil, Stan realizes with a frown. He wishes he knew, wishes he wasn’t so stupid when it came to friendship. It takes everything in his power not to start yelling at himself then and there for never actually talking anything out with Richie. He never even got a full conversation as to why Richie wasn’t upset that he had almost died when they were kids. Richie had comforted  _ Stan, _ who cried because he was concerned for Richie, was angry that Richie acted like he wasn’t in the hospital for two weeks. He wasn’t Eddie, this wasn’t  _ normal. _

Eddie places a hand on Stan’s shoulder, brows furrowed, concern written over his features. “Hey,” he says, officially interrupting the other’s thoughts before they can invade his mind and cloud his judgment too much. “We can go visit him tonight, okay? He always leaves his window open.” 

“You’re damn right we fuckin’ will,” Maury interrupts, snapping Stan’s attention towards him, “We’re gonna go see fuckin’ Richie and we’re gonna fuck his socks off for worrying us like that!” 

“We are not,” Stan clarifies. 

“We definitely could, though,” Maurice reasons with a smile, teasing the other happily. He starts walking, the boys following. “I say, we go to the quarry. Richie’ll probably meet us there when he’s ready, like he normally does.” 

Stan frowns, saying, “But he never talks to us about anything important.” 

“He told us about his mom,” the hormone monster tries. 

Eddie grumpily corrects, “He told us because I walked in on his mom screaming at him.”

“Okay, so, two out of three of you boys are pissed at yourselves right now and you’re taking it out on me.” He points to Bill, supplying, “You’re my favorite now, got it?” 

“Be - Being the favorite is a - a - a lot of pressure,” Bill mutters, cheeks heating despite his attempt for them not to. 

“Maury smirks. “Don’t worry, kid, my standards are still low. It’s not like you’re extremely, extravagantly gay and out to everyone like Matthew was. And, well, now maybe Richie, too, poor kid.” He tosses his hand out. “If you were like Matthew, though, my standards would be very high, but you’re more of a low maintenance gay, so it’s not like it matters.” 

“I’m not gay,” Bill says clearly, face heating. 

Maury just scoffs and says, “Don’t be homophobic, Bill. It’s okay to be gay.” 

“I - I know that-” 

“Then don’t knock it ‘till you try it. Get that bussy!” 

Eddie repeats, “Bussy?” 

“Butt pussy,” Maurice easily supplies, hands groping the air like he had a butt in front of him. Eddie and Bill cringe while Stan rolls his eyes. “See? Stan is more like Matthew! He’s got  _ tastes! _ His standards are low, but he’s got spirit!” 

“Shut up, Maury,” Stan groans, his face painted red at the words. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept getting distracted but I hope y'all like the references to s3 of Big Mouth


	7. Mike Hanlon and Richie's family shit! Because fuck you, this is my story!

Mike Hanlon didn’t expect a lot from life. Realistically, he knew he should have expected  _ something, _ really just  _ anything, _ but he doesn’t. Instead, he simply expects to wade through life’s tide, going with whatever happens to him without much complaint. If he was uncomfortable with something, he’d learned to grit his teeth and bare it. His grandfather had taught him that. While he knew this wasn’t exactly the healthiest treatment and knew he should have known better and learned better coping mechanisms, he decided to grit his teeth and bare that, too. Maury was trying to convince him to stop that, but he was learning to slowly fall out of that habit and voice what was wrong. 

He expects the day to go as per usual. He would herd sheep in the morning with Mr. Chips at his side, do as his grandfather said, get his schoolwork done, and then deliver what meats were needed. However, on his way home, he didn’t expect to, quite literally, run into someone. He would normally be on his bike, but the tired had gotten bent in Henry Bowers’ last vicious attack, so he was delivering everything on foot. Normally, at worst, he’d hear the taunts from Henry and take whatever shit was given to him, but, as it seemed early on, today was going to be different. His walk back home was interrupted as a tall kid collided with him, the two falling to the ground with thuds. Mike was about to apologize, to ask why the kid was even back there in the alleyway to his grandfather’s shops’ back door when he hears and unmistakable voice. 

_ “Where the fuck are you, pussy boy?” _

The teenager in front of him bristles, a look of terror crossing his face as he hears it, stumbling up from the ground with his breathing uneven. It sounds so strained as Mike follows in standing up. He can hear the car engine. Unfortunately for him, he knows Bowers’ car can fit through the alleyway. In a moment of desperate panic, he grabs the boys’ wrist, pulling him into the back of the shop within an instant and shutting the door behind him. In a total of five seconds, at most, Mike hears the familiar roar of an engine, as well as Henry’s voice. He can hear every word, every slur. It takes him a total of two seconds to piece together that this person, whoever there were, weren’t at all safe. 

‘You okay,” Mike asks despite himself. 

Their breathing had yet to calm, but the other nods, still wheezing as he grips at his shirt. He had a thick head of black hair, all curls, really wild ones, at that. Thick-rimmed glasses sit on his nose, sharp cheekbones and doe eyes accompanying the look. The glasses only make his eyes look bigger, thick eyelashes and splotches of freckles there, too. For some reason, Mike almost feels jealous of him, but his face is still so soft and he looks like he hasn’t fought a day in his life. At least, not fought and won if the dark bruises and blood that coats many patches on his face red still are any sort of tell. 

“Breathe,” Mike says slowly, “Can you try in for four, hold for seven, out for eight?” The boy shrugs, still wheezing. “I’ll count for you, okay?” They nod, though they still look frantic. Mike knew it was rather dumb of him to invite this random kid who was a target of Henry Bowers’ in, but he’d be damned to Hell if he would have let Henry lay a hand on him, especially of the look of terror were any tell. So, slowly, he starts counting for the other, tapping out a rhythm on the back of the boy’s hand. He’s unsure when they started holding hands, but he wasn’t going to let them go when the shaking boy seemed so dependent on his touch right now. Mike only vaguely hears Maury yelling something as he calms the boy down. 

“Okay,” he softly talks again, “I’m going to get a wet rag and some ice to clean you up, okay? You stay right here, alright?” 

They look a little worried but nod nonetheless. 

He softly supplies, “It’ll only be a minute, okay?” They nod again. 

Mike leaves the room for only three minutes and seventeen seconds exactly, counting it out as he gets the supplies. Gauze, tape, ice, wet rags, a bowl of water, just whatever he had. His grandfather and uncles often ended up with injuries, so he knew how to bandage them well enough. When he returns, the boy is sitting, curled up against the wall with his knees to his chest. He’s pale and looks like he’s seen a ghost as the other starts to clean on the blood. The taller has little to no reaction. ‘

“My name’s Richie,” the boy says slowly, “Richie Tozier.” 

“Tozier,” Mike repeats slowly. He knows the woman Maggie Tozier, who was loud and mean, always talking over anyone she found inferior. Mike was one of those people, unfortunately. However, he can easily tell with one quick glance over of this boy that he was one of those people, too. His eyes look scared at the way Mike repeats the name, but soften when Mike smiles and softly says, “I’m Mike Hanlon.” 

“Mike, huh?” 

He nods, slow and thoughtful. “Yeah… Is there a problem with my name being Mike, or?...” 

Richie shakes his head and smiles softly, something kind and genuine, maybe even shy. He softly supplies, “I have a brother named Mike, actually… He lives a little bit away, in Hawkins.” 

“Why’s that,” Mike gently prods, just attempting to make conversation but quickly clarifying, “Not that you have to tell me, but-” 

“My parents got a divorce when I was a kid and so it was just me and my biological dad and one of my two brothers for a while…” He looks like a lovesick fool, though his expression is softer. It takes Mike a moment to realize that the look he’s giving is one of admiration. “My brothers, they’re both older than me. We got taken from our dad and given to our mom, but Maggie wasn’t the best, so, they both got out. Since I was the baby of the family, I got to stay, I guess.” 

Mike watches the wistful look on his face and wonders how long it’s been since he’s seen his brothers. He guesses it’s been a rather long while if the somber tone is any sort of hint at anything. 

“Mike lives in Hawkins. He got adopted by my aunt. My other brother, Boris, he got adopted by his friend’s family or something, I’m not sure. Then, my little sister and other older brother, Flora and Miles, went to their mom’s custody, so…” He trails off, still smiling softly. 

“You have three brothers and a sister?” 

“Yeah,” he says with a smirk, “and we came from three different women.” 

“Your dad had an affair?” 

“Three, actually,” Richie snorts, “Maggie’s not my mom, not really, she was just there after mine and Boris’ mom died.” He looks bitter as Mike presses ice to the bruise on his eye, Richie having taken his glasses off when Mike was getting everything earlier. “Mike is technically our aunt’s kid, who had an affair while Maggie and the rest of our family were in town for my grandpa’s funeral.” 

“Geez,” Mike smiles. 

Richie laughs, calling an amused, “I know, _ right?” _ He offers his hands out to the other, slowly uncoiling from the ball he was in. “It’s really shady, but me and my brothers all look exactly like each other and Flora really looks like Maggie, so, who knows? Maybe she’s actually Maggie’s kid?” 

“Would you be asking seriously or rhetorically?” 

“Could be both,” Richie says, “Maggie’s a whore and I didn’t see her much when I was a kid since me and Boris always traveled with my dad while they stayed in Australia.” 

“You’re from Australia?” He asks, eyes wide. 

The taller smiles proudly and nods. “And Ukraine, and Germany, and England, and-” 

“I get it, I get it,” Mike laughs with a soft smile, “You guys travel a lot.” 

“My dad was a miner, so people hated him and we’d move when he started fucking up the environment.” He shrugged, nonchalant and amused with himself, apparently. “What about you, mister Mikey?” 

“Um, my parents are dead,” he says easily. 

“Same,” Richie replies like it’s an achievement. It makes Mike laugh. 

He smiles and nods, “Yeah, same.” Richie offers a closed fist to the other, which Mike returns, knuckles pressed together as the two decide that bonding over dead parents was apparently socially acceptable now. Neither would really know, anyway. “They died in a fire, that Neibolt house that’s all black and burnt up, that’s where we lived.” Richie nods, wide-eyed and full of wonder as he listens. Mike wrings out the rag and presses it to his temple. “So now I live with my granddad and a couple of my uncles. They run the farm and I deliver for them.” 

“You’re homeschooled, too, right,” Richie asks, a finger half-heartedly pointed as him. It wasn’t in any sort of accusing way, either, which Mike relaxes at. “Or is that just a rumor?” 

“Technically, I’m homeschooled, but it’s all with that one Neibolt Street Church School or whatever it’s called, so it’s technically  _ not _ homeschooling?” 

Richie still nods, confirming, “I know what you’re talking about. Maggie was gonna put me in that, but Went is Jewish so she just put me in public school instead.” 

“That doesn’t make sense?” 

He shakes his head, still smiling and once again confirming, “No, it doesn’t, but my mother is a crackhead so I will never know what she intends for me.” 

Mike raises a brow. “Is she really?” 

“Swear on my bio-mom’s grave,” he says with one hand on his chest and the other held up. 

Mike laughs, though, still smiling as he wipes down the last bit of blood and tearing up some gauze. “Not that I don’t love getting to know you, but do you always tell everyone your life story the second you meet them?” 

He proudly shakes his head, announcing, “Nope, you’re the first and only person that isn’t in my family that knows this. I haven’t even told my three friends.” 

“Just three?” 

“I don’t see you with many, either, Hanlon,” he teases, no bite at all. 

Mike didn’t have any malice in him, either, as he says, “Fair point. But why me?” 

“Because I know you’re nice and won’t off me for oversharing,” he easily concludes without hesitation, “I’ve seen how patient you are with my mom when she’s being a handful the few times I’ve seen her come in here and I know that you’re a pushover, too.” 

Mike repeats, “Too?” 

“Too,” Richie confirms with a solid nod, “You take the customer’s shit without any bite and you’re nice as fuck anyway. And I just don’t like tolling my mental shit onto people so I just listen to them. So, now we can talk out our emotional shit to each other and you’re my friend.” 

“We’re friends?” 

Richie nods, suddenly looking red, “I mean, if you want to be…” 

It’s improper, but Mike’s pretty sure that’s just who Richie is. So, he smiles and decides that he likes this boy, easily supplying, “I’d like that, Richie.” 

He ignores Maury’s confused, “What the fuck?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Mike and feel like his dynamic with Richie is Richie being imposing and Mike being like "Yeah, okay" and the two becoming friends like that. You can pry this from my cold, dead, gay hands


	8. suicide, self harm, and blood

Richie’s heart feels like it resides in his throat the instant he hears yelling downstairs. It’s two voices, Maggie’s stern tone meddling with something rich and husky that Richie doesn’t even have to blink at twice to recognize. If not for the fact that the voices were loud and angry, well, he probably would have jumped up at the chance to see Wentworth once more. However, the welling is carrying through the home and it certainly isn’t a happy scene. He tosses on a large hoodie, not even bothering with Mona and Coonie and he tiptoes out of the room, sticking along the edges and avoiding the areas that creak. 

“So, you’ve just been out playing parent with Miles, Flora, and Boris? You even went to see Mike and the other  _ brats?” _

“They’re my  _ kids, _ Maggie,” Wentworth says, glaring at her. 

Richie edges along peering around the stairs, head only a small bit in view. He cranes his neck to get the best look. 

“It’s been  _ months, _ Wentworth! You visited for a fucking  _ day _ and then left again!” 

There’s a sigh from the man that makes Richie know that whatever he’s going to say next will certainly  _ not  _ be in the boy’s best interest, especially given that he shoves a pile of papers in Maggie’s direction with the comment, “I’ve already signed Pankratova over into your custody. Di whatever you want with her, but we’re getting this divorce and then I’m leaving.” 

“To live in that mansion with your other kids?” 

_ “Yes,” _ he replies in a frustrated tone. “I can be out in two hours.”

Richie’s tempted to wait out the rest f the conversation, but there doesn’t seem to be anymore as Maggie willingly signs the papers, Richie’s retreat quick and simple. He barely even registers the two monstresses following behind him, both of which look more than just mildly worried. They lock the door behind their selves as they slip into the room, Connie sitting on the edge of the bed that Richie had managed to flop on quietly within the three seconds he had been in the room. He lays on his side, arms wrapped protectively around his middle. 

“Richie, my love,” she begins, but her voice slowly trails off. For some reason, she can’t find it in her to continue on, her hand hovering over his shoulder. 

The Depression Kitty merely smirks at the two, the feline pushing her hand back. “No need to stick around ladies,” she says in her smooth tone smiling slyly, “The gang and I have plans for the kiddo tonight, She’ll be taken care of  _ real well.” _

_ “He’ll,” _ Connie angrily snaps back, but her girlfriend held onto her shoulder, frowning and shaking her head. “We’ll just aggravate the wounds, my love.” Her whispers are soft as she pulls her away, telling her, “We can go get some fresh air for now, alright?” 

The redheaded one of the two frowns, clearly not wishing to actually go with her but knowing the restraints on challenging the other. She deflates, but follows along, anyways, huffing softly to herself. 

And yet, hours later when the house is far too quiet and the only noise is the flooding of water and the choking soft, sobs that are unmistakably Richie’s. The two immediately rush up the stairs, calling the name of their little charge. They can hear the sultry voices as they inch closer. 

_ “Richie,” _ Connie screams as she gets to the door, jiggling the handle. “Kid, come on!” 

Mona calls, “Move,” to the other, watching as the redheaded monstress moves out of the way without a second of hesitation. It takes one charged kick to break the door down, finding the boy curled up in the tub with an assortment of characters whispering at him, their voices low and daunting. Kitty stands at the front, though, sighing as the women shove their way through, pushing aside everyone to take care of their boy. 

“We almost had him,” Kitty whispers in a disappointed sigh. Before Mona has a chance to kick her ass, though, the demons all disappear from the small room, leaving the boy held tightly in Connie’s arms, sobbing pitifully. 

They don’t get the chance to comfort or help, though. His arms are bleeding and they both know what’s happened It isn’t the first time, but it’s the closest, especially with how pale he is. Mona gets a few of the bath towels, pressing them to the boy’s wrists. 

Richie’s cries don’t falter at their actions. What they falter at, though, is the sudden look of the clown that pops up from the tub’s drain, shocking all three, who jump in surprise, though Richie’s actual response is rather jaded. The clown smirks, one foot on either side of the tub. 

“Look at that, Pankratova,” IT cheers in an excited tone, “You can’t even kill yourself right! We can play all your games! And mine, too!” 

“Go  _ away,” _ he weakly whines, out of stamina. 

The clowns eyes widen, brows furrowing, asking the other, “And leave my favorite toy?” His expression turns wicked, grin splitting his face. 

Connie’s alarmed screech of  _ What the fuck _ gets ignored as the clown lunges forward, the bloody water sloshing. As far as the two women can tell, all he does is touch the boys’ chest and push him beneath the water. Connie strides forward to pull him up, telling him, “It’s okay, baby, I got you,” as he sputters, coughing the disgusting water out of his lungs. Mona follows the clown’s lung with her claws out, but it’s useless. 

“If you love blood so much,” it happily screeches, “I’ll give you some more!” 

Within an instant, the pipes are bursting with a stream of blood, their screams not going unnoticed. The clown disappears within the sea of red. 

Richie’s sobs don’t let up. He’s in pain and the water around him is cold. He’s always hated blood, associating it with his period. It’s clear he still does as his sobs grow, leaning against Connie as he forces the last bit of his energy to be used staying awake. 

**Author's Note:**

> The crossover no one asked for but I will supply! Thanks to my little sister, who forced me to finally sit down and watch season 2 and 3!


End file.
